The Dementor
by inks
Summary: Human beings do not know anything about us. They manipulate us, hate us, fear us - but in the end, they understand nothing... Even a dementor is capable of falling in love...
1. Chapter 1: Untitled

Disclaimer: Harry Potter and Characters belong to J.K. Rowling.

Chapter 1: Untitled

Harry glanced at the handsome mahogany clock chiming above the common room fireplace, and to his great dismay, saw the two hands aligned at 12.

Heaving a great sigh, he put down his quill and began massaging his fingers. He had hardly made a dent in his History of Magic essay: three parchment rolls discussing the employment of dementors at Azkaban and its effects on the 19th century.

Ron was scribbling furiously, and from what Harry could make out, randomly as well. His parchment was full of unrecognizable names like "Useff the Wise" and "Hongleis the Terrible."

When Harry asked Ron about them, he answered, "I figured if I wrote enough, he wouldn't fret over the details. All wizard names are the same, you know. Look, I added the 'terrible' and stuff for authenticity! Pretty smart, huh?"

Seeing Ron so delighted by his own genius, Harry decided it wouldn't be a good time to point out those "details" were probably important parts of history. He smiled to himself when he realized that was probably what Hermione would say.

Hermione had refused to let him or Ron copy hers, and now that he was getting desperate, his irritation was intensifying. He looked over at her, sitting comfortably on a couch at the other end of the room, nose buried in a book.

Hoping to catch her off guard and in a generous mood, he crept towards her. But right when he was about to ask if he could borrow her essay, the illustration on Hermione's book cover caught his eye. Like all pictures in the wizarding world, the figures moved.

A beautiful girl with bright skin was standing in the center with her eyes closed, surrounded by a starkly black shadow enveloped in a thick mist. The darkness swirled around the girl in mad flurries, and as though affected, she cringed and shuddered.

Her long dark hair fluttered like pages in the wind, and suddenly everything was still. Then slowly and gradually, a thin, elongated, hideously distorted hand, covered in a scabby, graying hide emerged from the shadow and placed itself on the girl's white arm. Harry's eyes widened with horror; the girl winced in pain. The hand slid unto her cold shoulders…hovering, as though unable to touch… or was it unwillingness?

And just as another deathly hand erupted from the background, the book snapped shut, and Harry found himself a foot away from Hermione's glaring, brown eyes. He was shocked to see they were overflowing with thick tears.

"What do you want?" she demanded as she began dabbing her eyes with the hem of her sleeves.

"Are you alright?" Harry asked dumbfounded.

"Yes," she sniffed indignantly, "I'm fine." She pulled out a handkerchief from her robe pocket and began blowing unashamedly into it. "What do you want?" she asked again.

"Er…is that a dementor on the cover?" he asked. Hermione flipped the cover toward her with a swift movement, stared at the figures with a sad expression, and nodded slowly.

"Is that why you came over here?" she asked incredulously as she snapped the novel closed and set it aside. She began tossing her scattered supplies into her book bag.

"Er- no," Harry began, "Er - actually- wait a minute - can I see that Hermione?"

"What, the book?" She asked. Hermione looked almost reluctant, but she handed it to him anyway in a business-like manner. "Fine, but don't lose or damage it. It's extremely rare, you know. There are only three copies in the world. I had to place a special order with Professor Dumbledore's approval."

"Sure" Harry replied mechanically, "Do you mind if I borrow this?" He slid his had over the smooth binding.

On the cover, the girl was silently crying – her tears, molten glass. Harry was curious, _why was she suffering so?_

"I don't know Harry," Hermione cut into his reverie, her eyebrows raised skeptically, "you don't seem to be much of a romance person."

"Romance?" Harry questioned in surprise. "But, a dementor-"

"Ugh, that's exactly like people," Hermione interrupted heatedly, a hint of strain seeping into her tone, "judging without understanding!"

"Excuse me?" Harry began defensively, astounded by her reaction, "The last time I checked, they didn't hire dementors in Azkaban because they made people cookies and pot roast."

"On second thought," came Hermione's shrill voice, "you _should_ read this." She pointed madly at the book and grabbed her bag before disappearing up the stairs of the girl's dormitory.

Knowing it would be useless trying to call her back, Harry turned his attention to the book. It was not very thick but its weight was tremendous; his arms were almost buckling under the pressure. He set it on the ground and began to examine the pages.

He realized there was no title or author so he flipped to the first page, on which two lines of curly script greeted his hungry eyes. _It was dedicated to someone_, Harry mused, _like Muggle novels_.

It read:

_To my Greatest Happiness_

_And Sorrow… _

_I only pray that Hell will take me _

_Before Eternity _

_So I may suffer for No One _

_But thee_

And without a second thought, Harry began to read.


	2. Chapter 2: Prologue

Chapter 2: Prologue

Human beings do not know anything about us. They manipulate us, hate us, fear us - but in the end, they understand nothing, and could honestly care less.

_They believe we are simple creatures_, driven solely by our desire to survive – to drain all of the happiness from others to compensate for their own incompleteness. That is, to an incredibly high degree, true. But if we denounced humans for drinking water or eating animals, of course, that would be ludicrous – would it not?

_They believe we are simple creatures_, incapable of speech or higher learning. Yet, we are not unable to talk human language. We merely, do not believe it necessary. As for our own day-to-day existence, we communicate through our intuition and emotions. Dementors are highly attuned to emotional responses; as though reading another's heart. All the answers we could ever desire – an open book. So why in Merlin's name _would _they need to speak to human beings?

But I will confess, admit, divulge - I am a terrible creature. Even if all these silly stereotypes were to disappear, I would still stand, a wretched a beast. I want to denounce humans for their lack of insight – their stupidity – ignorance – their misunderstanding. But what use would it be? It will only enhance the cruelty of my being.

However, the one misconception I _absolutely_ must elucidate is the rumor that dementors are incapable of love. What living (or even nonliving!) entity in this world is beyond the boundaries of love? Not I, nor the rock that lies before me.

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For the most part, dementors are neutral – neither female nor male. But on rare occasion, such as my own creation, we are given gender. Reproduction is a strange process; two dementors, bonded by either friendship or affection (not the burning passion human's associated with procreation), exchange their souls – a motley of all the emotions they have absorbed from their human prey – to produce a dementor "child."

The young are miniatures of their parents, except their skeletal bodies are covered in white flawless skin. As we mature, the skin becomes increasingly unappealing. Stretched taut across our bones, it appears as though we are decaying – a dead grey adorned with genesis-lacking wounds.

We are nothing but skin and bones. Our bodies appear so frail that we look malnourished and dehydrated. Do not be deceived, we dementors are able to carry immense weight and likewise, inflict terrible physical damage should the mental affliction be not enough...

Have you not wondered where the dementor finds his apparel? We shroud ourselves in our misery; a fabric so intensely dark and yet so thin and fluttery. It controls our body temperature and shields us from the wind, rain, and snow. A dementor feels nothing physical. Do not get me wrong, we have the tactile senses, but any element on the outside does not effect us. A summer sun and a gusty night are all the same – we feel neither the cold nor the heat.

Instead, we carry our environment with us. Our bodies are designed to absorb all the positive energy around us. In essence, all the light, the warmth, the happiness is taken away. And in its absence, darkness reigns.

But one thing our bodies were not designed for was love. Yes, I am being quite contradictory here aren't I? My readers will be so kind as to remind me that I had explicitly stated dementors _can_ love. It's true. We have the capacity in our minds to do so, but our bodies were not built to harbor emotions. We take the emotions of others, and consist very little of our own.

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	3. Chapter 3: Renaissance

**Thank You, my Avid Readers for your wonderful support. Reviewers and Favortiers - I appreciate your encouragement from the bottom of my heart, and for you, I will continue writing Merry Christmas**!

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Chapter 3: Renaissance

Now my true story begins…

It was a bright morning – before we arrived. Loyally adhering to my dementor horde, I approached the small town of Saint Alice.

Hovering eerily like a mass of amorphous shadows, we sifted into the alleys, dragging around instant darkness in our wake. The scent of death and sorrow must have been terrible for the humans. It never occurred to me back then…

There were hundreds of us, slinking across the streets, hoping for an unsuspecting individual to stumble into our midst. We were not disappointed.

We had broken ourselves into manageable groups of five. Of course, we planned to work collectively, but no one could deny that it was indeed a competition. Once a person came within grasping distance, there would be no distinction – every dementor for itself.

At this point, you would wonder why we just did not wreak havoc on the town – throw off our silly disguises and sate our thirst on every living soul. But we needed to make this rest stop last. Wizards, with their patronuses (a spell that has been perfected over the past five decades), have made it difficult for us to prey on human-populated areas. We would conserve our resources.

My group waited for seven hours without stirring – a feat that could not have been accomplished by any human. It was a frigid 27˚ F, and the temperature was dropping steadily under our influence. I amused myself with the icicles forming on the hem of my sleeve.

However, not all of us were willing to abide by the "etiquette" of dementor eating habits. Already, the younger ones desired to break up and search on their own. They were restless, fatigued, and desperate. They were _dangerous_. If one of them was sighted, it would mean trouble for us all. We were too ravenous to let them spoil our victims by instilling fear and panic in their hearts.

I exchanged furtive glances with the only other veteran besides myself. He warned us all to stay put – not like I needed the advice. I was not stupid enough to reveal myself just yet. Yet the young ones ignored him. They flew away, immersing themselves in the gloomy sky and then scurrying off to another location – one teeming with human life.

It was not thirty seconds before the veteran and I heard an ear-splitting scream. _Great_, I thought sardonically, _the whole town will be in tumult now! _

Seeing no point in lingering, I moved out of my hiding place. I was on the verge of ascending into the air when I heard a shuffling of feet and a muffled gasp. I turned to find the other veteran clutching unto the struggling form of a human girl. I could hear his glee in my head; it was sickening to see his vivid plans for this morsel. _So unfortunate_, I secretly lamented for her, _that_ particular_ dementor was notorious for "playing with his food." How many times have I seen his mutilated victims? If depriving them of their souls was not enough, he had to destroy their bodies. The poor child may lose an arm or a leg…_

Not wanting to bear witness to such trial, I began drifting towards the screams when out of some silly impulse I turned around.

There _she_ was, gazing directly at my hollow eyes. No sound issued from her lips but her eyes pleaded – and the noise was tremendous! My ear drums pounded with her silent requests, and not for that entire moment did her eyes leave mine. Her dark piercing eyes captured me, broke my resistance, and reeled me in. I was breathless fish hooked on her line…

The dementor put his clammy hands around her throat and pulled her face into the gaping hole that was his mouth. I could already see the soft white froth that was being drawn from her depths and collecting in her mouth. Her soul was so accessible! I heard the dementor gurgle with delight and watched as the girl resignedly closed her tearing eyes. The life was draining from her body.

I don't know what made me do it. I rushed toward the other dementor and tore his hands away from her. She fell to the ground, lifeless, as the dementor tried to defend himself from my fervid claws. He let out a bestial scream as he attempted to hack at my body; he was not going to lose his prey to me.

Unfortunately for him, I was much quicker than he had anticipated. And after dodging a seemingly fatal blow, I managed to tear at his neck, exposing an artery and a few capillaries. A murky brown-blue liquid cascaded down his lean, sinewy muscles, drenching his billowing robe and tainting his sickly skin. While clutching his wound in pain, the dementor let out a resentful wail before retreating into the sky to join our brothers.

I was breathless and stricken with fear. My violence was so opposed to my normally indifferent demeanor that I feared I had been possessed. My heart was thumping twice as fast under my shallow chest. I looked up into the dark clouds and the mass of black that was swirling directly beneath it.

The dementor was angry that I had deprived him of a meal, but I knew it was only temporary. It is very difficult for dementors to harbor passion for long – whether that be anger or sorrow.

Then suddenly, a bolt of lighting illuminated the sky. And with a jolt, I turned my attention to the girl. Her soul was hovering over her parted lips, which had turned blue from the cold. I carefully leaned over her figure – sorely tempted.

The warmth of the soul lured me, and I quickly closed the distance - my mouth right beside the bright orb. I could hear a voice from the soul and I wanted nothing more than to devour it then and there – to absorb every memory and happiness from the girl.

I sighed and the soul fluttered in that breath. Then ever so delicately, I extended my tongue, enveloping an infinitesimal speck of the white orb. The sweet, burning taste ruptured on my taste buds and overcome with hunger, I swallowed.

It was a delight and pain like I had never known. I was inside her mind.

Normally, when the Kiss was performed, the soul was instantly consumed. No second thoughts. I depleted the human's energy and memory, savoring the feeling of being whole and full. But I had never had the experience of taking a soul piece by piece.

I heard the girl's voice ringing in my head. It echoed over and over – cryptic words – as I nervously watched flashes of her life pass before my eyes. The girl was very young. She sat in a gorgeously decorated room while watching a woman play expertly on a harpsichord. The girl was older. She was laughing while following a young boy to the edge of a pond in the summertime. The girl was even older now. She nodded vigorously as a young man presented her with a dazzling diamond ring.

The voice was getting louder now and I could make out the words. _Please_, she begged, _please…_

Suddenly I felt fire and ice piercing my skin at every possible angle. The pain was beyond anything I had ever imagined. I was overwhelmed by her hope, her innocence, and her trust…in me. I was rendered immobile.

I opened my eyes. Even without looking at my reflection, I could tell they were bloodshot. I looked at the girl still lying on the cold cobbled ground of the alleyway. Her soul, almost perfectly intact, hovered hesitantly over her mouth. I pulled her head unto my lap.

She looked so vulnerable and fragile. _I could kill her_; I thought morbidly, _yes I could kill her very easily_. Suddenly that thought seemed so cruel. With a tenderness I never knew could be possible for a dementor, I used my fingers to push her soul back in through her mouth. Instantly, I was taken aback by the way her cheeks suddenly flushed with color and her skin took back its lively hue.

I knew it was then, because I could feel it. My heart was leaving me – it was no longer my own. I looked at the girl's peaceful countenance and a searing pain burned through the empty void of my chest. How could this have happened?

Dementors can not see very well, but this mattered not. She was completely beautiful to me. My hands sought her face. I delineated her features, trying to memorize every contour. I stroked her wavy dark hair and pulled her closer. The warmth was incredible! She murmured something inaudible and I treasured the sound.

Then it occurred to me that I was a dementor. I pulled my fingers away from her skin with regret. Something as disgusting as me should not touch anything as holy as her. I had to find her home right away.


	4. Chapter 4: Momento

**Thank you everyone for your support! Enjoy this Next chapter until I can write another one**

**If you like this story, feel free to check out my other one, Surreptitious!**

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Chapter 4: Momento

The girl shuddered. It was so cold. Out of desperation, I pulled her into my arms, and through the thin gauze of my cloak, I could feel the warmth of her body. My heart did something of a somersault and twisted uncomfortably in my hollow chest. With a free hand, I attempted to mollify its amplified thumps.

Yet, the girl cringed violently when her skin made contact with mine. I suddenly realized that I was colder than anything in our surroundings – the snow, the ice, the gusty winds… _She must be frozen,_ I thought, _she felt warm to me because _I_ was so cold! I am doing her no favor by clinging unto her!_

But I could not leave her in this Godforsaken alley. She would not be found in time to be rescued, and I would not see her die – _especially_ at my hands.

Stripping off my outer cloak, I wrapped the girl in its dark fabric while taking care to avoid direct contact. Her shaking was reduced considerably once she was secured within my arms. She let out a soft sigh and contently rested her head against my side. Briefly, I paused to admire her tranquility.

Without the opacity of the cloak, I was a horror. The thin robe that clothed me did nothing to obscure my skeletal structure. My decaying flesh and elongated limbs were strikingly apparent. I did not believe in a Creator, but I found myself praying to God and every other deity that could possibly hear my silent cries. _Please let her live. Please do not let her see me…_

I gently took off into the grey sky and scrutinized the town below me, hoping that some person was in search of the girl. Unfortunately, the streets were still and not a single soul was in sight. Even the dementors that had been looming over the horizon had disappeared.

I will admit: I was terribly afraid. I had never been separated from my kind, and unable to sense their presence, I felt panic surge through me in sporadic spurts. I moved quickly, in hopes of regaining lost time.

The girl was fast asleep but I was more awake than ever. I moved from door to door, window to window, seeking an empty room or hallway – anywhere that could harbor her from the chill outside. Fortunately for me, a small bakery had left its back door ajar. I crept in, and placed the girl gingerly on the floor.

I could see that my appearance did not slide by unnoticed. Already, small crystals of ice were forming on the walls. The candles extinguished themselves and the furnace that was ablaze a mere moments before was dying down. I knew I only had a couple minutes before the bakery, too, would become a frozen wasteland like the one we had just escaped.

The evidence of my existence had to be removed. I got unto my knees and carefully began unraveling my cloak from the girl. But something was afoot. She was perfectly still. If I had been in a panic before, I was now beside myself in terror. Losing all reason and rationality, I let out a pained scream. The inhuman cry echoed off the walls as I rushed into the depths of the bakery. I charged directly into a myriad of pots and pans and racks, but I did not stop. Overcome with grief, I felt nothing.

_What could save her now?_ I thought frantically. I found a pot of boiling water on of the stove, and without hesitation, I brought it to her side. Grabbing her wrists, I plunged her hands into the steaming water. But I pulled them out in shock when the girl gave a sharp whimper. I never realized how fragile humans were. Her skin was now bright red – burned and blistered. The swelling was accompanied by other epidermal irritations - rashes and small bumps. The girl had hives.

My cries once again filled the room. How stupid I had been! Of course, she is not like me! The thought made me feel immeasurably helpless and insignificant. I tried to cool her marred hands by placing them in mine, but I was so appalled by the comparison that I dropped her hands. They fell at her sides, damaged, and I castigated myself for being so reckless.

My hands looked like weapons. Almost twice as long as hers, they were bony and angular. The index fingers were the longest, giving the hands a strange unearthly appearance – much like skinless wings of some demon. And to accentuate all of these hideous features, nails, sharp and tough as a blade, topped each of my ghastly fingers.

And then there were the girl's hands. They were as small and dainty as a child's. Free of calluses or deep scarring, they belonged to a person who did no labor. My body turned to lead as I looked at the wounds I had created on her soft skin. Moaning with self-hatred, I deftly stroked each hand with a fingertip.

Then a sudden clang from above drew me out of my wallowing. I snapped upright and moved protectively across the girl's body. Every inch of my being anticipated a threat – an attack.

I was surprised to hear an elderly woman's voice. "Richard? Is that you?" the woman called into the darkness. The scurrying footsteps came to abrupt halt. "Oh my! Who put out all the lights? Richard? ...Richard? Are you down there?"

I turned my head and vaguely saw a wrinkled face squinting into the room from the top of the stairs. I was as still as a boulder, and I knew she would not be able to differentiate my form from the pitch black room. The woman went back upstairs, and I quickly exhaled.

My body had been naturally absorbing all the happiness from the humans. The woman was a kind person, I could tell. The girl will be safe hear. I pulled myself off of her. Beneath me, she was shedding a silver tear. Ashamed, I headed for the door. _Do not look back. Do not look back… _

But it was too late. I turned around. And there she was – ethereal as ever. I regretted everything: I wished I had never saved her; I wished I had never met her; I wished I had never existed.

My life seemed so pointless now. Although, I will argue that it was actually the other way around. My life had no meaning before. It was vacant, empty, and trivial. With her, I realized for the first time in my life, I had something. I had something completely my own. This emotion, this infatuation, this passion was all mine. And this idea freed me.

The woman was coming back – this time, armed with light. Of course, I should have left there and then, but I did not… I could not.

I floated towards her once more. I was terribly selfish. I kept telling myself that I did not need her. I could watch her from afar and still be satisfied. Or so I believed.

I ripped a long piece of the black cloth from my cloak, the embodiment of my sorrow. Woe and depression create thick threads – it was an arduous task. I tied the fabric to a lock of her dark hair, letting it trail like an elegant accessory.

Then, realization flooded me. I wanted her to know about me. I secretly hoped that the mystery would draw her to me – perhaps she would fall in love with me. I tore at my skin until it gushed out blood. _How could I even suggest such a thing! It was blasphemy – utter sacrilege!_ I was about to pull the cloth right out of her curly tresses when suddenly a tiny candle came into view about fifteen feet away.

The woman was back. She could not see me – I was still in the shadows. I hurried out the door, leaving the ribbon in the girl's hair. I could have gotten it had I truly wanted to…


	5. Chapter 5: Omen

Chapter 5: Omen

Tremulously, I watched from the window. Of course I did not leave! I was (and always will be) weak, selfish, lost, and utterly moronic. _Of course_, I stayed. And for once in my life, I actually considered my options – only to find that I did not have any.

The old woman hobbled into the room, and to her great surprise, found the girl sprawled on the floor like a dissected animal. With a shrill squeak, she rushed to the girl's side and felt that the body was cold. I saw that the woman was confused. She did not even check if the girl was alive. After frantically running around the store, she placed a warm cloth on the girl's forehead and a blanket over her body. The woman's leathery voice could be heard through the walls. "Harold! Harold!" She called, and an elderly man with a wispy white beard appeared at the top of the stairs.

He was a gentle, soft spoken man. I did not have to be inside to observe this. With an expert hand, he placed his finger on the girl's wrist, feeling for a pulse beneath her frigid epidermis. By the expression on his weathered face, I deduced the girl was still in decent health. And soon enough, the confused girl awoke, and it as though I were watching the break of dawn! I can not begin to describe that dazzling wonder, who sat up, poised and elegant, gracing the ancient couple with her smile. _Poor, poor sun_, I mused, _to have to compete with her!_

My readers shall mock my pettiness. "How trite," they will think aloud, "A beast lured by a pretty lady." And quite unfortunately, I really do not have a proper retort for such a comment. It can not be falsified by _anything_ I document here.

I, too, was very shocked to hear myself thinking so amorously about this girl. I did not even know her name! Oh, what I would have given then to know her name!

I watched her pathetically as she was taken upstairs and into the arms of safety. But at the last step, she ran her fingers through her hair, and I watched her eyes grow as wide as saucers. Then, she pulled out the strip of my robe and held it in her palm as though handling glass. She glanced around the room until the backdoor, still ajar after my flight, caught her attention.

She said something apologetic to the old woman before rushing to the door and out into the street, where I hid only a couple dozen feet away. I tried to melt into the shadows and escape behind the tall building to the right of the bakery. But my legs, which I did not use very often (I was always floating with my dementor brethren), were far too feeble to support the rest of my body – no matter how emaciated it was.

The girl saw me stumbling and clutching to the walls with my elongated fingers. When she tried to move closer, I was in such a rush to disappear that I fell over completely, slamming heavily against the cobblestone streets. The girl's face was extremely sympathetic - with her eyebrows slightly furrowed and her lips quivering. She made no other attempt to stop me, but was reluctant to leave me be. Hot with embarrassment and shame, I crawled to the best of my ability to the end of the block.

"Thank you," she called out in a mellifluous cadence. _How did she know it was me?_ I did not turn; I knew already how powerless I was in her presence. A single glance and I would want to go to her for sure. Then anything (if anything did _ever_ exist) that I had left to preserve would be lost.

_No_, I told myself, _never again will I fall for her. She is nothing but trouble. _True to my own word, I did not turn around. But it did not make a difference, I could not move. I could not think of a more devastating moment to lose control of my limbs. I heard her shoes tinkling against the hard surface of the stones. She was coming _toward_ me. Why could she not just satisfy herself with my sacrifice of pride? I had shown how wretched I was without ever saying a word. What more could she _possibly _want? _Just leave me alone! Leave me alone!_ I screamed in my head.

Right when I had given up all hope, and began fretting with the edge of my robe, I heard the old woman. "Miss, you will catch a cold, you will! Standing out in this weather! Come inside!" she admonished. The voice startled the girl and she whirled around.

"Oh, yes, I will, I just-" she began. But when she turned back to look for me, I was gone.

"Did you see someone?" the old woman asked as she wrapped a thick woolen shawl around the girl's bare shoulders.

"No," the girl answered slowly. She was still looking around the corners, hoping to catch a glimpse of her mysterious savior. Did she perhaps believe me to be some handsome stranger? I laughed at the thought. _Me? Handsome?_

I watched her from the top of the building. She seemed so disappointed by my disappearance that I felt terrible.

"What's that?" the old woman inquired lightheartedly, nudging at the strand of black fabric fluttering from between the girl's pale fingers.

"This?" the girl asked as she handed the cloth to the woman. The old woman let out a soft gasp when the cloth touched her skin, as though it burned. "Are you alright?" the girl asked pulling the fabric away and examining the woman's hand with concern.

"Yes, dear, no need to fret. Just tell me, where did you come by this…thing?" she asked encouragingly but quietly.

"I found it. It was in my hair when I woke up," the girl replied while her bright eyes searched the old woman's countenance for any signs of understanding. 

"This cloth is very strange. It is nothing like I've ever seen before – and believe me, my life has been long enough! This is not – I don't know how exactly to explain this – this is not…human," she said.

"It must be!" the girl insisted. "I saw a man just a few moments ago! He was right here." She rushed over to where I had been and gesticulated with her hands.

"And what did he look like?"

"He was very tall. And he was wearing a black robe of some sort. So, I could not see his face. I believe he did not wish to talk to me," the girl ended rather sadly. She subconsciously tugged at a lock of her ebony tresses and stared blankly at the ground – lost in thought.

I wished I could tell her that was not so! I wanted nothing more than to speak to her! To somehow understand her! But the woman cut into my thoughts.

"Child, this does not bode well," the old woman began in a prophetic tone as she glanced (uneasily, if I may add) at the black cloth, "Call me superstitious, but there are some things that this granny knows. And _this_ is a sign! A harbinger of misfortune! I tell you – you are being preyed upon by some monster! A ghost, perhaps, yes, a lost spirit looking for a host… Destroy that thing at once!"

Suddenly, the girl laughed, and the sound echoed off the walls like ripples on water. "Do not worry," she said through her giggles, "I will make sure this specter does not harm me."

The old woman looked sour for a brief moment. It must have been because the girl had made light of her dire prediction. I saw many truths in what the woman had to say, but how could anyone scold the girl for being optimistic? Even the old woman seemed to soften up.

The girl laughed for a few more seconds before dancing around the middle of the street and festively twirling her dress. She was beaming, and for the briefest of moments, she looked up. And I could have sworn she saw me. I backed off from the edge of the roof, but I still listened.

"Why are you so happy?" the old woman tried to sound austere by clicking her tongue impatiently.

"I just have the most wonderful feeling," the girl answered, while humming an unfamiliar tune, "as though I've found something important. Does that even make sense?" She burst into laughter again.

"Young people these days," the woman sighed, "We better find your home child. Where do you live? Do you remember? Never mind that! Come now, we must get you inside. I can send a message from there. Child!"

"Yes?" the girl answered distractedly.

"What is your name?" the old woman finally said after letting out a sigh of resignation.

"I'm Roma," she answered.

And I heard nothing after that. _Roma, Roma, Roma_… It echoed over and over.


	6. Chapter 6: Shadow

**I believe I haven't updated in a while - I was a bit preoccupied with my other story**

**This is a short chapter - but it gets the ball rolling...**

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Chapter 6: Shadow

I took to dogging her steps. Yes, in other words, I became somewhat of a stalker. But could anyone blame me? Infatuation can compel a dementor do to ridiculous things!

I soon found out many things about my Roma. Goodness, how beautiful it sounds, even in my vacant mind! _My_ Roma. My secret devotion…

She was the daughter of a well-to-do middle class family. Merchants, no doubt. Her father sold spices, silks, and other exotic trinkets from the Orient.

He was rarely at the home, and I knew this, for I watched her live for months, but when he did return, he was armed with gifts: expensive mother of pearl combs, golden rings, bejeweled necklaces, and other bright objects. My Roma was powerless to beauty, and this prospect drove me insane.

No matter how perpetually I tried to content myself with watching from afar, there was always a small hope in the back of my mind that prayed she and I would someday meet. I harbored this spark in the depths of my soul, hoping it would disappear, but instead, it gradually manifested itself into my actions.

I became careless. My trails trailed off. My invisibility became visible. She must have seen me a few times, but she never let it bother her. Instead, she attempted to lure me out with small tokens of trust. _What a sly angel!_ It would have worked, of course, had I not been so determined to keep her unawares. She left out a cup of water once. I did not touch it, even out of curiousity, and after a week or two, she stopped.

But I never grew tired of her routines.

In the early morning, she would wake and brush her waist-length tresses by the small window in her bedroom. I would float to that window before sunrise and watch her stir in her dreams, secretly fantasizing that I may be part of them.

As noon approached, she would help her mother with household affairs – none that I will feign knowledge of. Nevertheless, towards the end of each week, I would watch her for hours, hanging large white sheets and other cloth from a rope strung across two wooden poles. No one else could make manual labor look so desirable!

When the sun completed its journey across the immense sky, she and her family would gather around the table on the first floor. The nights were cold in these parts, so the hearth was lit but the windows were closed. During these hours, I sat quietly outside, craning my bony neck to catch what snippets I could of her voice.

Then came nighttime – my favorite time. She would come back up to her room and look out her window at the cold, sullen moon. It was so dark, I could hover right in front of her window and she would not see me – my image conveniently obscured by her own opaque reflection.

When she vaguely smiled or laughed in a brief reverie, I would pretend it was me she saw. My make-believe games were taking a toll on me; I could tell after a time. There were times when I forgot who I was – or rather – what I was. I forgot what I looked like….

And my life was like this for the shortest six months I have ever known. When spring came, I stumbled upon the queerest news. My Roma was getting married. _My_ Roma!

Then it all came back to me. When I had a taste of Roma's soul, did I not see this? Yes, I remembered. Humans are strange creatures. I never understood the concept of marriage until later, when I, too, desired it from my Roma. As a dementor, I did not grow under the preconception that mating was for life.

Dementors are very antisocial and anti-emotional (which in either case makes me a salient anomaly). Their so-called "bonds" are more about convenience than anything else. They have no such taboos about breeding with multiple partners.

This may have been what troubled me so. Marriage would claim Roma for himself!

But that was not the only problem. As much as I was afraid of admitting it, I was jealous. I was envious, resentful, and covetous. My delusions had taken over; Roma was _mine_. And no one would take her away.

Everything sounds so superficial now. I had no right to want her, let alone take her.

The wedding was a big fuss in St. Alice, and stories were so rampant in the streets that it did not take much effort on my part to extrapolate the facts. The groom was the lord's son (his name escapes me). His father owned the estate and controlled the town. He met my Roma when he came to purchase some goods from her father. There were a lot of other scanty details that I will not mention simply because it has no importance to the plot.

Now, if the reader could see me now, I would have the most peculiar look on my face, daring the reader to exclaim, "Why?"

The truth is the heavens must have been on my side, or I on theirs. For you see, a week before the wedding a lethal plague, known simply as the Rosy Plague (a misnomer, I assure you), broke out in the region. And a mere three days before her wedding, Roma contracted the illness…


	7. Chapter 7: Abandonment

Chapter 7: Abandonment

I hid in the forest that bordered the town. It was broad daylight and the entire town was rumbling with tumult. I did not know that my Roma was…sick, as of yet. So I watched, fascinated by the mass evacuations. Each able-bodied individual, child and adult strapped every inch of their bodies with their superfluous belongings. Many were leashing their livestock to their belts so the animals could not run away. 

Yet it was not just the animals that were being imprisoned. Those who had grown too weak from the effects of the Rosy Plague could not resist; they were thrown into an enormous heap at the edge of the town to die. The tangle of arms, legs, necks, and backs created a pyramid of human lives. I was briefly excited by their vacillating energies. I will not deny that I visited the pile a few times to satiate my hunger. But a fire was quickly put to the bodies to burn away the contagious illness. Meanwhile, those who had recently contracted the plague were locked and roped down in their homes or at the local asylum, which would be burned later that afternoon. 

I was mildly surprised when my Roma's house was bustling with similar activity. Of course if my Roma were to leave this town, I would follow. There was no problem in that. So I watched indifferently. Furniture tumbled across the floor, clothes, still clinging to their line, were stained with mud, and the people, who I had begun to recognize by voice were leaving their two-story abode with heavy footsteps…everyone but my Roma. 

I was so astounded by _this_ revelation that I entered the house through the front door as soon as the others had turned the corner. I stopped upon hearing a deep voice, speaking woefully. 

"I am so sorry," the man was saying. I took a quick peek, and there he stood, the lord's son in the same countenance and stature as every villager had described. He was incredibly handsome. Hair of molten copper and eyes of cobalt, he had his back to me and he was gazing somberly at a white bundle bounded by thick cords to each of the four bed posts.

I curiously contorted by body until I could get a clear view of the bulk. My heart dropped unto the floor when I saw my Roma's face peering, oddly blank, through the transparent veil that shrouded her face. The lord's son pulled the white sheets over her entire form and walked out of the room, oblivious of my presence, floating above his head. 

I descended next to her as soon as I heard the door slam outside and quickly began tearing the thick binds with my claws. I pulled the white cloth from her body and was flabbergasted. She was wearing nothing more than a thin, translucent under-dress (the family had taken every other garment in the entire house), but that was not what frightened me. No, beneath the fluttering, pink material, there was a garden of purple bruises shaped like flowers down the length of her legs, torso, and arms. I counted sixteen. 

The floor creaked as I crumpled upon it. One can not imagine the hopelessness I felt at that moment – the terror. I was beside myself with grief. Dementors are not intimidated by death; after all, were we not the living dead? But death was oh-so-foreign to my Roma. She would be alone. 

At this point, I find it necessary to describe the symptoms of the Plague. I have included a list of the phases of the Rosy Plague (which for the most part is in chronological and in order of least to most severe):

1. Breakout of hives 

2. Breakout of bruises caused by internal bleeding (also known as "roses")

3. Continuation of the roses and high fever

4. Lapses in consciousness 

5. Hallucinations, insanity

6. DEATH

I brought the covers about my Roma's body again to protect her from the cold. Yet as I backed away from her, a hand shot out of the fabric and closed tightly around my bony wrist. 

"Don't leave me!" my Roma cried. I jumped with surprise; I believed her to be sleeping. Her dark, night-eyes sought mine but to no avail. My entire face was perfectly obscured by my cloak. 

There was terror in her crystal voice and desolate tremor in her fingertips, but I hardly noticed. I relished in the naked touch between her hands and mine. It will sound pathetic, but it was the most intimate contact I had ever had with anything. 

I did not need any convincing. I sat across from her and nodded my head vigorously so she could detect the movement without straining her neck to see me. I felt her relax considerably and her taught body slacked as she lay comfortably, supine, upon the crispy mattress. 

I loosened myself as well, allowing my frail legs to unwind a bit. The two of us were like this for a few minutes when suddenly, my Roma called out in wild pain. Her eyes were wide open, but they saw nothing. She shook uncontrollably, madly waving her arms and kicking her legs. 

"Water!" she pierced the still, musty air with her shrill scream, "Water! Water! Please, water!" 

My feet brought me upright as though I had been electrocuted. I tried to calm her by placing her hot, steaming face between my frigid hands. For a moment I was so caught up in the feeling of her warmth that I forgot she was still yelping in pain. 

"Water!" she called again. I quickly obliged. 

But when I came into the street, I was flooded in a thick cloud of smoke and ashy debris. I looked around in panic and I felt the heat before I saw the brilliant flames of the pyre. The villagers were burning down the houses now! 

I came back inside, but my Roma was breaking out in cold sweat, pleading for water to quench her thirst. I could have brought her with me, but I was a cold dementor and she had nothing to keep her warm. The only option called for haste.

I found myself flying with unimaginable speed over the burning rooftops and walls. One can imagine my joy when I discovered a pristine stream, surrounded picturesquely by blue mountains, only a mile away. I descended upon the edge of water and took special care not to touch any of it. But when I dipped the small glass jug into the stream's galloping splashes, my entire hand was scorched. The grey, decaying skin was bright red then, and a small portion of the skin had peeled right off. 

Dementors can not touch running water without the risk of burning. It was a risk I honored taking. I looked impassively at my wound, which was spurting a strange mixture that looked like wet clay. I was not vain. I had no reason to be. 

Thus, I carried the jug preciously to my chest until I reached my Roma's home, which I soon realized had been set aflame during my departure. 


	8. Chapter 8: Resurrection

**Sorry for the Delay! Presenting Chapter 8 **

* * *

Chapter 8: Resurrection

For a moment, my mind was empty, but not pleasantly so. Sometimes my head becomes light for hours on end, and I wander in a thick, ethereal haze until fatigue draws me out of my stupor. But today, it felt as though time had come to a ragged standstill and I was caught somewhere between then and there. You realize my dilemma? I was lost – completely lost.

The fire blinked at me with such innocence that I had forgotten what I had been so obsessed about. What had I been fighting against? What was happening? What was I doing there?

And then my heart gave a yelp, and I screeched like a broken horse. My Roma! My darling, precious, irreplaceable Roma! To have thought for a moment that there was a life without her – what kind of beast was I – _am_ I?

I flew into the burning building without another moment's hesitation. The bed was quickly ravaged by my hands as I searched for my Roma's sleeping form. But she was no where to be found. The bed was empty and rapidly consumed by the petals of blithesome flames.

I left no board unturned or room unchecked. Yet my search was as vain as it was disorganized. Her disappearance puzzled me. She had been in no condition to walk. Could she have bolted out the house in her desperate need for water?

The door crumbled as I shifted by. The screams of terrified victims and the shrill cries of the wild animals, fleeing from the fire, filled the still air and left me shaking. I flitted through the streets as quickly as I could. I was a floating mist in the eyes of the humans.

I had come to an abrupt halt when I saw an old filthy man pushing a wheelbarrow filled to the brim with infected bodies. Several of the fingers and toes twitched involuntarily from underneath the fleshy bulks and I winced like a beaten slave when I recognized the fragile, delicate appendages. The arm was so white that it appeared to glow from underneath the earthen tones of the surrounding dead. And she beckoned me – my Roma.

Twice, the finger moved, and I came swiftly. Heaven's angels could not have had more celerity. She was yet alive!

Her voice, though muffled by the torsos and legs of the plagued, was a siren in my ears. "I'm not dead," she called. "I'm not dead!" She was crying, and I felt my body growing weak. The man pushing the cart ignored her heart-wrenching pleas and wrinkled his nose in disgust. The scent of death was viscous and tangible. My bubbling excitement, stoked by the violently active human energy, was quelled only by my fear.

The pyre was looming ahead, ever ominously, and I had to stop his man – stop him from tossing my Roma into the red.

"STOP!" I croaked. The grating sound of metal on gravel took me by surprise. My voice… It occurred to me, I had never heard my own voice before. I was thoroughly disappointed. It was stupid and naïve of me, but for some odd and inexplicable reason, I had always assumed that my voice would be marvelous - the one instrument that could possibly enrapture my beloved. After all, I had been given nothing. No tantalizing body, no amazing talents… God must have compensated somehow.

While I was caught amidst my musings, the old man was gaping at me with such terror that I almost turned around to see what ghost had wrought his fears.

I took another step toward the man but he was immobile. I continued to inch myself forward until I was standing not a foot away from his aged face. Then, I nearly broke in hysteria. Mortals could not see me!

In a surge of insanity, I hopped from one foot to another in front of him. His head snapped back and forth as he heard the soft _swoosh_ from underneath my bony feet and saw the little whirlwind of dust I trailed behind.

"Leave the girl!" I demanded, feeling empowered by my invisibility. The old man jumped on the balls of his feet and cantered to his wheelbarrow, dumping its rotting contents unto the dirt road. He tugged reluctantly at the white arm until it revealed the beautiful head of its master. My Roma! I pushed the man aside with an angry hiss and knelt beside her. I would not let anyone touch her again. She was _mine_!

The man tumbled after being assaulted viciously by a gust of wind. To him, I was a paranormal experience. Perhaps I was a spirit, haunting the life I had once known. He turned on his heels and ran toward the gate, brimming with people trying to flee the outbreak.

My Roma looked as though she had been abused. Two rosettes had bloomed on her blanched face, one over each eyelid. I was caught in a trance. How alluring she was – even in such a state. The dark purple created permanent shadows beneath her brows, and my breath hitched when they lifted, revealing the splendid ebony jewels of my greatest desire.

"You again," she murmured, her voice was feeble – a mere whisper that still ensnared me with such potency I fell limp. Her hand clutched unto my forearm. "I'm so thirsty." Her eyes were drowsy once more.

I wanted so desperately to explain what had happened to the water, but I was speechless with embarrassment. I did not want her to listen to me. So I found myself nodding and gesticulating like a mindless fool. Ha! What a laugh that would have been for my Roma! My Roma – who has the world in my breaking heart – being thoughtlessly romanced by a dementor!

Then I was shot with an epiphany. How could she see me? Perhaps she was a witch? I thought. My Roma leaned her head toward me and I wantonly inhaled her scent. It was sweet and intoxicating. Discreetly, I pressed my body closer and breathed. She was an addiction and I was hopelessly addicted. No, she did not smell of sorcery.

A scream issued from the throat of some desolate victim and I was wide awake again. My earlier abstemiousness was thrown off and I quickly pulled my Roma in my arms and flew in the air. The air was frigid and peppered with the small ice crystals preparing to become snow. I gently swathed my Roma in the fabric of my cloak, but her lips were becoming blue.

The commute was a lot faster off foot. I brought her to the lake and used my hands to slip the liquid down her throat. She drank thankfully and gained consciousness. When I was with her, time seemed too fast!

"You saved me again," she said as she looked at me. I tried not to make eye contact, although I doubt she would have been able to see my eyes past the shadowy fabrics. "Please-" she placed a smooth hand on mine (I could have died with happiness) "-please look at me."

I turned my body – ever so slowly and she smiled brightly. If I could have blushed, I would have. But unfortunately, my foul, rotting flesh is not capable to retaining any hue other than gray or white. Nevertheless, I felt the heat rise to my grave cheeks.

"Thank you," she whispered. I sighed contentedly as her hand constricted around mine.

My Roma's eyes began to falter once more, but my burning curiosity forced me to keep her awake. I asked in the gentlest tone my vocal cords could offer, "Can you see me?"

She looked confused for the briefest of moments, and I waited with bated breath as her eyes wandered over my form. Right to left. Up and down. "Yes," she answered.

"Aren't you afraid?" I asked.

"No," she replied and then softly added, "Should I be?"

"Can't you _see_ me?" I pressed on with my eyes nearly bulging from their sockets.

"Yes, yes, I can. I already told y-"

"Then," I breathed, "How can you _not _be frightened?"

She relaxed and answered me promptly. "I've learned not to question luck or divine intervention."

"You believe me divine?" I questioned in disbelief.

"What else could you be?"

And I interrogated her no further. If she believed me to be some sort of angel, an angel I would be.

* * *

**Author's Note: I wanted to incorporate a cliffhanger - but the next installment is still in the making and I'm not quite sure how it would flow. I'll keep trying! **


	9. Chapter 9: Healing Potion

Chapter 9: Healing Potion

That night was the second longest night of my entire life, and my indecision was to blame. I did not know where to begin. There were so many questions racing through my callow head! Should I seek refuge? Should I forage for food? Should I find a cure for this terrible plague?

Between my frail arms, my Roma stirred incessantly in her deep slumber, and she coughed as though her lungs were shriveling. I wanted to help her – desperately. But what could I do? I was a dementor, not a healer. I would most likely suck the life from every vein in her body before I could cure something as trivial as a cold.

Wait! A healer… That gave me an idea. I shifted my Roma's weight to one arm as I twisted to get a better view of my setting.

Yet what I saw discouraged me. Saint Alice was engulfed by countryside. My Roma and I were completely alone save the silent trees and skittish hares. The next town could be three miles away or three hundred. And if that notion was not depressing enough, it was very possible that the people had already abandoned their homes. How fast could disease travel? My mind hummed anxiously.

Luckily as the sun dipped over the horizon, darkness had little effect on me. On the contrary, I felt as though the darkness paled drastically in comparison to my frosty aurora. As usual, the sulky, gray clouds found their place above my cadaver-head. I sighed in exhaustion. The awkward combination of excitement and anxiety had taken a rough toll on my stamina. My Roma let out a sharp gasp when my arms buckled beneath her.

"Where are we?" my Roma asked in a soft whisper. I watched her eye lids vibrate as they attempted to open, but she was too weak. She inhaled deeply and seemed alarmed by the coolness of the air. "Where _are_ we?" she repeated.

I wanted to answer right away, but my self-consciousness paralyzed me. I wanted my Roma to hear and smell as little of me as possible. So as my mouth and tongue jumbled to form letters, my voice cracked and cackled like a banshee. Embarrassment burned my cheeks.

A tinkling laughter hit me like a battering ram. "I feel like we're flying!" my Roma whistled. She titled her head towards me without opening her eyes. "Are we in a cloud?"

The jocular edge to her voice hinted at innocuous sarcasm. I deemed it a rhetorical question and remained avidly on course. There was a small flicker in the distance, and my adrenaline was pumping furiously through my limbs. _Yes_, I sighed, I sensed magic. _Wizards._

I had never been happier at the prospect of encountering those elitist, stick-waving ruffians. As much as I distrusted their kind, I knew they could not _possibly_ refuse to help an innocent woman – a poor, defenseless child.

My heart protested behind my stiff rib cages, but I hurried on. I followed the thick odor of witchcraft, which hung on the air like dew on blades of grass. It choked me and filled my nostrils until by lungs were intoxicated by its sticky scent. When I came to one inconspicuous little hut, I knew I had located my target.

Reluctantly, I placed my dearest on the dirt floor and pulled my cloak off of her and gasped when I saw her poor body, marred by those hideous purple spots. I gathered a handful of metal yard tools from the garden adjacent to the wall and nearly flung them through the window in an attempt to attract the attention of the wizards inside.

While I scurried to the rooftop, I saw a man thrust open the door. His shadowy form glowed oddly against the candlelight from within.

"What is it?" a young child's voice echoed from the hut.

The man seemed to squint into the distance before his eyes adjusted to the darkness. He jumped when he saw my Roma, lying piteously on the ground.

"A girl?" he gasped incredulously.

"What?" the child exclaimed. A small figure appeared in the doorway. Although her facial features were as blurred as her father's, I could see her shocking red hair as clearly as sunlight. She rushed to the man's side and uneasily clutched the hem of his sleeve. "She's sick." I noted the strained disgust in her voice and shuddered. I knew I should not have trusted _them_.

But the man assuaged my fears. "Yes," he replied softly. He came toward my Roma and placed two fingers delicately on her wrist. "Beth, please fetch me a cloak from the closet. And afterwards, will you boil some water?"

Beth twisted her mouth until it was nothing but a thin line across the bottom of her little face.

"What's wrong?" her father asked exasperatedly. I wanted to pounce on the rascal for being so impudent.

"She might get you sick, too."

"Don't be silly, Beth," the man said with a weary smile. "Wizards can't contract this disease."

"Oh." With that, she disappeared into the hut and the man carefully lifted my Roma and took her away. I watched with bated breath.

Yet after hours had gone by, my Roma did not come out. Not her nor the man nor the child. And I almost kicked myself for being so stupid. Of course, they were not going to throw out some sick girl who has no where to go. No doubt, they had convinced her to stay – at least for a while.

This thought comforted me a little, but it was not enough. I wanted proof. I wanted to see with my very eyes the peaceful expression on my Roma's face. I could not rest…

So when little Beth left the door open whilst visiting the local well, I went into the hut. The smell of spices and herbs knocked the wind out of; I wasted five minutes trying to adjust my keen nose to all the odors.

I crawled into a broom closet under the staircase. The air inside was stifling, but I had no problem forcing my thin body in between the pails and mops.

The door slammed shut. Beth had returned.

Opening the door, I was able to get a clear view of the kitchen. There was a giant copper cauldron in the middle of room; it sizzled and fizzed ominously.

"I have more water for you, Pa," Beth murmured. She shoved the bucket of water into her father's arms. It splashed precariously over the sides.

"Careful dear," the man warned.

"Yes," Beth muttered. She did not look very repentant. But even if she had been angry with the man, she was quickly distracted as the murky liquid in the cauldron grew clearer. It seemed to sparkle like liquid gems. "What is it?" Beth asked excitedly. I, too, was curious.

"It's a minor healing potion to stop internal bleeding."

"Is this for that girl?"

"Yes."

"Hey! It's pink now."

"This is an interesting potion," the man explained as he stirred the potion with a ladle. He added more wood to the fire beneath the cauldron before filling several jars with the liquid. I pulled my head a little further. Only a pint of it was left.

"What's so interesting?" Beth asked. She was annoyed by her father's sudden lapse of silence.

"Oh yes," he began, "See, if you just add a little bit of violet and crushed rose petals into this, it becomes a powerful love potion. Of course, you need to add a bit of yourself to the mix, too"

"Amazing!" Beth exclaimed. I was sure the idea of a love potion was incredibly appealing to her premature, romanticized vision of happiness. I was sorry to admit, she was not the only one intrigued.

"I think I'll bottle this up-"

The man was cut off by a loud groan from across the hallway. I knew it was my Roma. Beth and the man hurried into the other room, carrying the vat of healing potion.

I left the closet deftly. The hallway seemed to echo with every one of my Roma's sighs.

But as I began to float toward the room, the cauldron caught my eye and beckoned my mercilessly. Before I knew what I was doing, my skeletal hands were scouring the shelves for bottles of violet and rose petals. I threw the proper contents into the vat.

A deep torrent of satisfaction filled my heart as I watched the liquid change from a transparent pink to a thick red potion. A love potion…

As I was corking the potion in a small vile, I remembered what the man had said. I needed to include a piece of myself. This thought sickened me. There was nothing on my body that I would want my Roma to consume. Not my decaying paper-flesh or my thick talons.

Then, the door slammed in the hallway. I panicked. I pierced my finger with a knife on a nearby table and squeezed a murky, brown drop of blood into my love potion.

The potion darkened considerably and I was ashamed for what I was planning to do.


	10. Chapter 10: The Fountain

Chapter 10: The Fountain

I heard the steps echoing in the hallway, closer toward me, and the sound thudded in my ears until my very blood began to trill in tempo. I clawed my way back into the broom closet and watched, heart in throat, as thin ice formed on the door knob.

Beth appeared in the room, holding a small wooden basin in her arms. She placed two washcloths in the basin and began preparations to heat the water. She furrowed her brow and bit her tongue in concentration as she worked. And when a spark would not light a fire, she growled in frustration. I knew no heat would emanate as long as I stood in such proximity. Poor little Beth, I thought, bemused.

After several more valiant attempts, I realized her patience had waned and she straightened and inhaled deeply so she could muster enough energy to call for her father. But before she could bellow away, a scream offset the quiet tranquility of the house.

"I will not!" my Roma protested from the distant room. And that was all the convincing I needed. My Roma was in trouble and I could not afford to wait, spinelessly in the confines of a broom closet!

I burst out of the closet and Beth gasped. But fear paralyzed her from doing anything else. I left her standing there like some child statue and swirled into the room from where my Roma beckoned.

"Please," I heard the wizard plead, "You must drink this, or you will only get worse!"

"You are some sort of a sorcerer!" my Roma insisted desperately. "Wizard! Witch!"

"Oh for the love of-!"

The wizard never had a chance to finish for at that moment, he had glimpsed my ghostly figure reflected eerily in the mirror above the bed. The small vial in his hand shook before its contents spilled over and unto the floor. My Roma, however, sitting up and nestled between the blankets on the bed, stretched out her arms upon seeing me.

"Angel!" she cried, "Save me!"

I was taken aback by what she called me. Angel? Yes, indeed she had already divulged her hypothesis concerning my origin – my existence. Had circumstances been otherwise, I may have fallen out of the air laughing at the very idea. Yet there she was, praying to me in earnest. The wizard looked thunderstruck. He must have been completely bewildered by the fact that the girl could think of a dementor (which I am _sure_ he regarded with utter disgust) as an angel. Then another questioning look crossed his square face and I knew he was wondering how she could see me at all.

Yet his surprise did not render him motionless as it did to his small daughter, because before I could move closer to retrieve my Roma, he had whipped out his mahogany wand. He brandished it threateningly in front of me and red sparks flew into the air. My Roma screamed, kicked up the sheets on the bed as she scurried away, and huddled herself into the corner. She covered the nape of her neck with her hands, stealing glances at the wizard in between her shrieks of fear.

"Don't hurt him!" she cried from behind the bed post. My heart swelled; she worried for me.

The wizard, unfazed, glared menacingly and bellowed, "Stupefy!"

I felt my muscles tense for a moment and then relax. A simple Stunning spell would not be enough to restrain me. I felt empowered and confident. He tried again, "Stupefy!" But I continued to move forward, reaching for my poor Roma crying and shielding herself with her frail, white arms (I saw two more "roses" on them). The man gasped when my dead, skeletal hands ran across my Roma's skin.

"Expecto patronum!" he bellowed.

I froze as a bright, silvery horse burst from the tip of his wand. It made to charge at me, and for a moment, I felt fear. I had encountered this spell once or twice before, but never so closely! But unlike my last encounters, the warmth and happiness that the Patronus emitted was bearable, if not, desired. Since meeting my Roma, I had changed. I was drawn to the light rather than repelled.

When I thrust my arm forward and tore through the misty animal, the wizard seemed at a loss for words or actions. I pressed myself against the wall and a hand to Meliah.

"Come," I whispered in her ear. She looked at me; her dark eyes widened until they seemed to compose her entire face. Had I frightened her? My voice was, in every aspect, her antithesis. Whereas her voice was clear, high as mellifluous as a canary call, mine was raspy, decaying. And my soul ached as though an enormous thorn was jabbed into its center. I could not help but ask, "Do you fear me now?" I had to know.

My Roma continued to stare at me with those horridly awe-striking eyes, despite the choking noise which I assumed was the wizard (most likely racking his brains in the hopes of attaining some logical explanation for what he was witnessing). Her hands sought mine. And I let her entwine her pale fingers against my grey ones. I looked away – too afraid to note the stark differences. Had my self esteem not been damaged enough? Her warmth, however, drew me in until I was mentally clinging to her epidermis. I inhaled. I exhaled. I inhaled. I exhaled. Oh, I was not worthy!

Her reply was almost insignificant at that moment. She could have told me she feared me and I would not have heard. After all, one disease-stricken human girl I could take away and no one, not even her Creator would care…

"No," my Roma finally answered. Her voice brought me out of my sick reverie and I was sorry, immensely guilty, that I had considered her so insignificant, trivial, as though she was some piece of garbage no one wanted anymore. After all, who as at the mercy of whom?

She shook her head to emphasize her meaning and I pulled her back into my arms (where she belonged!), swaddling her thin form in the sheets. The wizard, to my surprise, made no further attempt to hinder us. He looked at me and then my Roma with amazement and wonder. And I understood my Roma's answer as permission, permission to take her under my wing – and perhaps later, much later, love.

I disappeared from the house and from the lives of both the wizard and young Beth, who stood yet at the kitchen door with a look of distorted horror. It has been more than a hundred years since then. Yes, I think she may be dead now.

The next morning was the first of many I would share with my Roma. I stopped under a tree in a small, picturesque meadow. She woke up, miraculously, fever free. This led me to believe the wizard had been successful in feeding her some potion before she had regained consciousness. That quickly reminded me of the love potion I had swiped from him; it had clunked oddly against my arm as I flew through the air as though to remind me how horrible I could be (how desperate).

But as sick as it may seem, the potion gave me hope, let's call it an "alternative." I only had enough for one trial. If for some reason (and I could think of quite a few), our relationship did not flower, I could use the potion as a catalyst. Then, she would see how happy we could be, and even when the potion wore off, she would stay. Something deep inside my chest knew this was fantasy, but I needed anything from driving me insane, from becoming an uncivilized monster.

My Roma, ecstatic that she was feeling better, was incredibly jubilant that day. I still remember her smile and that enraptured expression. She was so easily amused. And I knew the minute she awakened that my presence would ensnare her.

"What is your name?" she asked. She peered down upon me as I sat humbly in the shade to avoid the light.

"I-I-I do not have a name. We demen – I mean – our kind do not have names," I stuttered.

She then sat across from me, fascinated. I hoped she would not ask more questions about me; I was not a very adept liar.

"My name is Roma," she said. She pressed a hand to her chest and smiled.

I wanted to blurt out, "I know." But she did not know how much I knew about her. She did not know I had spent almost half a year with her already, watching from a grave distance. She did not know many things about me, and I wanted to keep things that way: mysterious but, at the very least, innocuous.

She told me many things about herself. Again, they were all things I knew and memorized. My Roma then reached the topic of her failed engagement. She faltered upon mentioning the man who had once been her betrothed. And her eyes flickered over the thin, silver band set with a bright gem on her left hand. Why had I never seen that before?

"What is that?" I asked curiously. In my surprise, my stutter had disappeared.

Her face turned toward me and she gulped. For the first time, I began making careful note of her appearance. Her hair was dark, curly, and long, framing her sweet, oval face. I wondered if her hair would feel as luscious and warm as it appeared. Her skin looked painfully white against her dark hair and her black eyes stared back at mine. They were incredibly deep, so deep, I could have fell into them and gotten lost. I realized her dress had changed into a floral patterned dress, somewhat loose around the waist and bosom area. It was clearly made for a larger woman. And as I recalled the scanty garb she had on before I was ashamed for letting the wizard see her. Mentally, I swore to protect her from further impingement on her dignity.

"It is a ring," my Roma began hesitantly, "that I received from a suitor." She fingered the band subconsciously and sighed heavily.

Out of some petty act of vengeance, I pressed on the matter, hoping to turn her completely against him. "And where is he now?" I asked softly.

"I do not know anymore." She looked frightened.

"Surely, you must have some idea?" I continued innocently. "He is your fiancé?" Talking had become so much easier.

My Roma's eyes welled with tears, and I was suddenly very sorry I brought the subject up at all. I bit my tongue and cringed as she replied reluctantly, "No. He left me. After, after I became ill. I will never see him again, I am sure."

She spoke with such misery that I could not help but feel responsible. I_ almost_ wished that he had not left her, and broken her dear heart. My Roma did not deserve such injustice. She would have been happy now, married and living in a large castle (at least, that is how I always imagined her life would be without the plague, and without me).

"I am so sorry," I murmured. And I was.

She forced a smile and it clashed with her tear-stained face and red-streaked eyes. "No, no. I am fine," she choked.

My Roma did not ask anymore questions about me that day, and I asked nothing about her. I did not need to know more than she would be willing to divulge. And since we now had an eternity together, bound by fate (and more accurately death), why hurry?

We watched the sun rise high into the sky and then went to a nearby town in search of food. We had no money, so I resorted to other means whilst unsuspecting vendors were looking away. My Roma, I left near a large oak in the town's square. A loaf of bread and a couple of potatoes were the unlucky victims of robbery that day.

When I returned to where I had left Roma, I found she was talking to an old man dressed in a colorful, mismatched garb. I came closer to listen to their conversation.

"-high on the peaks of Mt. Gwen there is a fountain, and if you drink from the waters, it will cure any disease!"

My Roma's eyes widened, and on her lips there was a hint of a hopeful smile. "Does such a fountain exist?" she asked, enthralled.

"Of course!" the man replied enthusiastically, gesticulating madly, "Once you drink from the fountain, you won't die!"

"Why would I want to be immortal?" my Roma asked quizzically, one eye brow rising. She let out a small, light laugh.

"My child, I know you are sick. Oh no, you can't hide them from me! I can see them roses on your face, you've got the plague! You're going to die. Drinking his potion won't _stop_ you from dying; it will _save _you from dying!"

My Roma gasped; her smile was quickly replaced by gaping horror. I would have pummeled the old man to the dirt, had I not come upon a similar epiphany. The plague was mortal. Oh Lord, no! My Roma was going to die.

The thought gnawed at my soul and despite my rational side, arguing nothing can stop a fatal disease, I wanted to find this fountain and save my Roma.

"I will die?" my Roma repeated bewildered. I placed a hand on her shoulder in hopes of calming her. She jumped upon contact and swung around. She looked at me and whispered, "Is that true? Is that why you are here? To take me away?"

"Who are you talking to?" the old man asked. The cadence of his voice rose as though more than slightly perturbed.

My Roma looked at him as though he was insane, and he returned her crazed stare. "What do you mean?" she asked softly.

"You having hallucinations?" the man asked and his tone was no longer disguised. He was disturbed for he had witnessed a girl talking to the empty air. "I see you are way beyond hope. Once you start having hallucinations, then you can't remember. Then, you die! I lost my wife two weeks ago to them bloody Roses!"

"Angel, what is he saying?" my Roma moaned.

I pulled her against my side and murmured, "Roma, I'm here to protect you. No one but you can see or hear me."

She leaned her head backwards until she was looking directly up at my face. "Are-?" she began; her eyes filled with questions.

"Shh," I said. "Beg pardon from the man. Let us leave him be."

The old man, meanwhile, seemed increasingly terrified of my Roma's invisible companion. He took a noticeable step backward but kept trying to identify some shape, squinting and peering suspiciously. Ha! As though a simple, miserable muggle like himself could possibly see me!

"Uh – thank you sir, but I best be going now," my Roma said. The man was even more surprised.

"W-what?" he asked flabbergasted.

But I had already grasped my Roma firmly by the shoulders and led her away – back toward the periphery of the town, near the green woods.

During our silent walk, I planned my story. I would play my part as my Roma's little angel, and I would tell her my purpose here on earth was to guard her. But of course, I would need to guide the dying souls to heaven. That way, I would have completely reliable excuse to "eat."

"In front of others, you should not address me," I began gently. I moved under the shade of tree and felt the grass wither beneath my feet. My Roma seemed not to have noticed. "You would seem mad to them," I added.

My Roma nodded slowly. "I understand," she said.

She moved closer and mimicked me as I sat down. "Angel, you must know. When will I die?" she asked. My Roma was in every aspect sincere.

I smiled, not at the gravity of her inquiry but the trust and innocence she conveyed. I attempted to put her worried heart at ease. "Whenever you want to," I replied.

She shook her head furiously. "Oh, I don't want to die!" she exclaimed.

"Then not to worry dear Roma," I said softly. I could not help myself and I had added a term of endearment. "Dear." It sounded so odd coming from me.

But my Roma blushed. Oh she blushed for real! And she was so intensely startling I could do no more than gape. The romantic spark was stirred once more within me and I grew to hope again.

"Then, will you stay with me?" she asked. "Until then, Angel?"

"And longer, if you would desire of me," I whispered back. Did she have any idea how much I meant those words? I was smoldering in my own fervor.

She blushed again, and I knew I would never tire that.


	11. Chapter 11: Guilty Feeling

Chapter 11: Guilty Feeling

The next few days, and perhaps that entire week, were lovely. Everything, the skies, the earth, and even those silly, cumbersome insects, seemed to be drunk on my passion.

The two of us, my lovely, dearest Roma and I, walked (well, I suppose, _I_ floated) about the countryside, stopping either to admire the scenery or gather food at a nearby village. I did not let her know I was stealing the food. That seemed morally repugnant at the moment; at least, it would be if my Roma found out. But oddly enough, she never questioned where the bread, pastries, fruits, vegetables came from – even when they returned ice-cold from my hands.

My Roma seemed healed on the outside despite the growing number of violet bruises on her arms. But mentally, I knew she was scarred. She never mentioned it, but she must have felt so alone. Her family had left her to die and now, she had but the companionship of an _in_human being.

I am sure anyone else may have mistaken her smiles to be those of blithesome ignorance, blind to her own traumatic ordeals. Yet I was sure they merely acted to disguise her unhappiness and discontent. The fact that she was so upset depressed me constantly. My Roma, nevertheless, was sincerest to me. And when she was in my presence, she was distracted enough to feel content.

She sang a lot. So much, in fact, any other person may have been annoyed by the constant outbursts. I seldom spoke, but when I did, I merely asked her to continue and commented on what a lovely voice she had. I think this encouraged her because when she began again, her voice was like creek water splashing on a warm spring morning. That is wonderful imagery for a dementor. And I think that there is no other way to describe it.

But there was always a dark cloud hanging over our relationship. Perhaps not to my Roma, but to me, particularly, that cloud grew and grew with every hour. I expected more from my Roma than a patron-beneficiary relationship. And though she had no idea, I felt hollow.

Sometime after those first days of bliss, I asked her, "What do I look like?"

My Roma stopped humming tunelessly and looked at me, her brow furrowed. When I halted midair, she, too stopped abruptly and said, "Don't you _know_ what you look like?"

I pondered this for a moment and replied, "Vaguely. But what I see is meaningless. What you see means everything." I wrung my hands together hopefully.

"Hmm," my Roma began thoughtfully, "It is difficult to describe. I don't know." She cocked her head to the side and I stifled a delighted gasp for she was completely adorable. My Roma was like a loveable baby animal. Humans love baby animals, don't they? Oh, then you must understand!

"Your form is slight. I feel as though I am looking at you through a frosty glass. Nothing too distinguishable yet," she said.

"Yet?" I repeated perplexed.

I watched her toss her dark hair over one shoulder, which was exposed due to the size of her dress. And my breath hitched uncomfortably. Never before had I felt this, this desire to feel. I wanted to touch her shoulder if only to realize that it is indeed tangible. I insist that this so-called lust is unlike any human yearning. Every part of me was filled with an emotion – a strange happiness and content upon seeing her. I wanted to hold her, not so that I could please myself but to convey my devotion, to prove my love.

But as I lost myself on that tiny patch of skin, my Roma was speaking. And what I heard made my heart plummet to the pits of my withered toes.

"Because the more time I spend with you, Angel," she answered softly. "The clearer you become."

I tried very hard to remain calm. But how could I think with the blood pounding against my ears? How could I breathe when my lungs seemed to be filling with liquid?

My Roma smiled distractedly and I saw her white teeth flash from between her lips. She was so beautiful. And I was so…hideous. I realize I point this out a lot. But in my defense, I had become incredibly self-conscious and insecure.

I had been getting closer to her on the mere hope that when she saw me, I was no more than a specter, solid but ghostly and obscure. Yet if she somehow was able to see me, clearly for what I was, there was nothing I could do to convince her I was _not _inherently evil.

I should have known. Unlike other mortals and even wizards, my Roma appeared completely unaffected by my presence. She may not have been cheerful, but she was sane and warm. My thoughts swarmed.

"Like for instance," my Roma continued amiably, "Why do you always wear this dark cloak? It's so warm today!"

"You see my cloak?" I asked softly. In response, she rolled her eyes as though the answer was obvious.

"May I?" she asked coyly, gesturing to my robes. My Roma wanted to touch them. I nodded and she threaded her hands in the fabric before giving it a gentle tug. "It is very thin but so heavy! What is it made of?"

I smirked, "You would not want to know."

My Roma let go of the cloth immediately.

"Anything else?" I asked. "What else do you see?"

"I can't!" my Roma exclaimed with a laugh, "When you insist on hiding yourself!"

"So you would trust a stranger?" I asked, perturbed, "You would travel with someone you can not even see?"

My Roma stopped smiling and her face became very serious. She pursed her lips together before exhaling deeply. "I know you are not human. That is why."

"What?" I could not stop myself from spluttering. "Isn't that less of a reason?"

She shrugged indifferently and then fixed her dress so both shoulders were adequately covered. I was disappointed to no end. "Men can not be trusted, they say," she chanted. "There was nothing about anything else. Besides, you have saved my life several times now. I would be wretched if I did not respect that."

"I have?" I asked surprised.

She answered, "I know you saved me from the other one, who tried to kill me. Was he another one of your kind?"

I was paralyzed by this question. She_ did_ remember me. But I was too shocked to feel grateful. "Not all of our kind is merciful. I only rescued you because I knew it was not your time," I replied cryptically. I felt guilty that I was masquerading as an angel, but I had gotten too deep now.

My Roma shook her head. "You saved me. So," she paused, and sought my eyes, "I am yours. Whatever you ask of me I will do."

Her words were earnest, but had they not been, I would not have known. I believed every word she said and was practically drowning in happiness when she said, "I am yours." There was that light in her eyes and the yield in her voice that assured me. I knew what I wanted from her. But –

"You swear?" I asked. My voice was more demanding than I would like to have shown. My Roma was alarmed by the gravity of my words. I had told her to swear, not promise, swear. I was not speaking in jest. But she was still undaunted. Ah, I sighed. She was intrepid! And silently, I bathed in the fire of her eyes.

"Of course," she said lightly. "You have my word." She nodded once and began combing her long hair with her fingers absentmindedly before hesitating.

It was as though she was trying to dispel the heavy atmosphere between us. "So, Angel, what dost thou ask of me?" she continued pleasantly in mock Shakespeare (whom I later learned of, for dementors, as you can already postulate, do not read sonnets and plays).

I looked past her head and toward the distant mountains. From my Roma? I felt as though I was in a dream, a fantasy. She would do anything, and she swore.

I knew my Roma had no where to go. Without me, she would have no one to stay by her side, to comfort her and protect her. Even by muggle standards, she was a pariah of sorts and an unwelcome harbinger. Yet I was bothered by the fact that she did not have a reason to _truly _stay with me.

My mind whirred. "Not yet. I have nothing to ask of you yet, but one day, I am sure there will be. And then, you must hold to your word," I murmured. It was an order, but it sounded more like a plea. My Roma looked at me again, puzzled but satisfied with my response.

"Well, then _sir_, when that time arrives, I am at your service," she said with an exaggerated air of subservience and a curtsy.

I smiled, greatly amused by her sense of humor. "Are you always so sarcastic?" I asked.

My Roma looked bewildered. My tone must have been grating and harsh, for she assumed she had offended me. "I am so sorry!" she gasped. "I was just trying to be funny. I did not mean to sound rude-"

I felt my insides churn when large clumps of tears formed on the rims of her onyx eyes.

"No!" I exclaimed. "I thought it was very funny!" – Although my voice sounded more frustrated than entertained – "Do not cry!"

She sniffed a little and wiped her premature tears. "You are not angry?" my Roma asked softly.

"Never, _never_ with you," I replied with a furious nod of my head. "Trust me." And indeed, I wished she would sometimes.

My Roma did not look all together too convinced. So, I tried eagerly to change the subject.

"We must find a cure for this disease," I said purposefully. "We will go, together, in search of Mt. Gwen."

Oh, light filled her dark eyes when I mentioned that mythical mountain! And her expression was filled with such admiration and wonder that my heart melted and sank into my soles once more. Even I had to ask myself, "Did such a place exist? And even if it did, there could not possibly be a fountain that restores health!"

But I had to believe the lie and make it believable for my Roma, who needed every source of inspiration God could provide her. I want to say I did this all for her, but I knew deep down, I was acting out of selfishness and greed. To spend the rest of my life with my Roma, the thought was to tempting to resist.

Even if it was not true, I wanted to keep her and force her to need me as much as I needed her. In retrospect, I do not think that was ever possible. But for that time, the alibi worked like a charm. And strangely, my Roma did not attack the Fountain's credibility. Perhaps she, too, deluded herself into believing miracles.

All of a sudden, my stomach twisted and protested. I was very hungry. Though dementors can sustain themselves by simply absorbing the happiness of bystanders, only the soul can keep them completely satiated. Since my Roma's happiness could not be taken (even had I wanted to), I was famished. With all the commotion and adjustment to this new life with my Roma, I had been very distracted.

"Roma," I began, "I sense some souls in need of my assistance. You must remain here. I will return in two hours, no more."

I can not describe how horrified she looked. It was as though I had asked her to jump of a precipice.

"W-what?" she stuttered in haste, "You intend to leave me here?" – She glanced over her shoulder and toward the thickets – "Alone?"

"I must, I'm afraid," I replied, gulping on the saliva that threatened to render me incomprehensible. "Trust me, I will not be long. And should there be trouble, call me right away and I will be here to guard you."

My Roma's face darkened considerably and I knew she did not have enough faith in me. She was convinced I planned to leave her, yet she surrendered silently. And with a heart-wrenching sigh she bid me luck and Godspeed. She did not look at me as I disappeared behind the black alleys.

I was desperate. I simply wanted a meal and to finish it as quickly as I could. After thirty minutes of scouring the streets, I managed to find a poor middle-aged woman who was unlucky enough to have fallen into my hands. I quickly clamped unto her screaming mouth and drained the soul right out of her, ignoring the flashes of memories whizzing past my eyes.

I left her empty and soul-less on the street. Her body just sat there with an odd, blank expression on her waxy face. I sighed, disgusted by what I had done. But how could I stop? I needed to survive.

For the first time in my life, I prayed for forgiveness. I do not think consumed souls can go to heaven because they are inside me. I felt awful for depriving that woman (and those that came after her) of that right.

When I returned to my Roma, she was staring in the direction I had left with bloodshot eyes. My poor, poor Roma. She noticed me when I appeared, drifting toward her like a dog with its tail between its thin legs. And she was relieved for I heard her inhale deeply.

"You've returned!" she said. Her eyes glimmered.

"Of course," I whispered. I always kept some distance between us when we spoke.

"Did you help them?" she asked softly. And I could barely stop myself from shifting uneasily.

"Excuse me?" I asked. "Help?"

My Roma looked at me questioningly. "Yes, those people you came to assist. Their souls?"

Then, I remembered that I had lied to her. I had pretended to guide the dying souls to heaven when I had been doing the exact opposite. I had nearly forgotten.

"Oh, yes. I did," I lied. She smiled and I could feel my guilt flowing backwards up my arteries.

How was I going to live like this? Every single day?


	12. Chapter 12: Confession

Chapter 12: Confession

Every few days I left my darling Roma so that I could feed. It was imperative that she should never know of my true diet. So I warned her to stay away when I was out: my mission was a secret and mortals could never know of the task I was burdened to carry here on Earth. My Roma was quick to adhere to this false doctrine, at least in theory. She grew accustomed to my habits and very soon, she lost that abused expression she donned when I drifted from sight.

Her curiosity, however, could not be contained. And there must have been moments when her insatiable desire to know everything agitated me, though I can not recall a single incident. When I least suspected it, she followed me… and pursued me as I pursued another.

I found the man, walking alone while smoking his cigar. He was a burly, middle-aged fellow with yellowing eyes and browned skin. I managed to lure him away from the front of the torch-lit pub. When he turned the sharp corner he was mine. I thrust his thick body against the brick wall, nearly maiming him. He groaned while I grasped the collar of his shift with both hands; writhed when my breath was upon his neck. I lowered my head toward his and consumed his whimpering soul. The famished beast at the pit of my stomach was appeased. I sighed. Ever so slowly, I rolled my tongue in my mouth to savor the flavor. Then -

It was my Roma's terrible gasp that drew my attention away from the thin lips of my prey.

"Angel!" she cried brokenly, her face half obscured by her milky white hands. "A-angel!"

I dropped the man and heard his head crack as it hit the pavement. My Roma screamed and turned away, sobbing heavily into the palms of her hands. In between her hiccups I heard muffled words that sounded like "oh my Lord!" and "Angel!" at erratic intervals.

"Roma!" I breathed, moving toward her and yet too frightened to touch her.

"Don't come any closer!" my Roma screamed. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her dress. "You are _no_ angel!"

I stopped in my tracks and descended unto the ground until I could feel the warm, thick blood of my last prey trickle past my hands and smother my robes. I lowered my head in defeat. She had discovered the truth. The despicable truth!

The man was dead. I could feel his life draining out of him and evaporating like thin mist into the air. My Roma's feet shuffled as she inched toward me.

"Who are you?" she asked in horror. Her eyes grew wider with every step. "_No_ – what are you?"

I craned my head to glimpse her petite shadow. I wanted to lie. To tell her I was – oh, anything but what I truly was! But her fear stopped me from construing more tales, I was willing to say anything if it meant earning her trust. "I am a dementor," I murmured. My throat grew hoarse and my saliva ran dry.

"W-What is that?" my Roma cut in; her voice was high and panic-stricken. I watched her stiffen as I pulled my arms around myself.

"We exist in a world separate from that of humans, that is, invisible to non-magical people. We feed on happiness and on souls. We consume them and leave the victim empty of nothing but their most dreaded memories and fears. We are filthy creatures, dirty, corrupt, dark creatures," I spoke slowly to avoid cracking between each word; I had never said so much at once.

Inside, I felt as though I were being cut into a thousand pieces. My Roma would leave me. Oh good Lord! How could this have happened? I squeezed my eyelids tight until an ache formed under my brow.

I knew this day would come. I should not have lied. But surely no sin was worth this kind of torture? My Roma would yell at me, pound me if she dared.

But when I opened my eyes again my Roma was still there. She was closer to me than I could have imagined. Her breathing was offbeat and ragged. Her two hands were positioned in front of her chest as though waiting for an attack.

"Take off your hood," she commanded. I was pained by her stoic tone and unfaltering gaze.

"No!" I protested. I fell in front her feet until my head grazed the stone beneath me. "I beg of you! Anything but that! Oh, Roma, have mercy! I will punish myself!"

My Roma and her cursed curiosity. The moment I reacted so vehemently she knew my face was my weakness and also my darkest secret. She grew adamant, shaking her pretty head and gesturing at my veil incessantly. I sensed her fear and excitement mingle until the air itself became tangible on my grey tongue.

"I demand it!" she said shrilly. "Remove your hood! Now! What have _you_ got to hide?"

I was crying then, unable to deny her yet wanting nothing more than to resist. "Roma!" I sobbed. "Oh, oh, don't ask me-"

"Please!" she snapped, then ever so gently again, "Please." That became her magic word. And against it, I might as well have been armed with a pin. My face was damp with my own muddy tears. But my Roma was persistent and gazed at me relentlessly until I had fulfilled her wish.

My hands shook severely as they pulled the black hood from my face. And I knew my Roma could see me clearly for she screamed and staggered backwards, clutching her chest as though she had been mauled.

"No face!" she shrieked maniacally. And though I did not want to admit it, she was right. I believe I may have spared her more trouble than me by refusing to remove my hood. She had glimpsed the face of misery. A rotting, scabbed grey canvas with two eyes set in dark sockets with lids covered in the same grey skin. Then there was my mouth. The lips were almost nonexistent so that my mouth looked like a gaping hole in my face, sucking its rattling breath.

My Roma stood up abruptly, using the walls to support her weight. I knew she was bound to run from me. I saw her feet twitch as they struggled to balance.

I could not bear to lose her! So, I forfeited everything, my dignity, my image, my heart.

I grabbed her foot by the ankle and shuffled closer on all fours, clinging to her with all my strength though physically I needed no more than a quarter of it. My Roma screamed again and again until the night was filled with her distress. Her legs flailed and her fists hammered against my skull. But I did not let go and she soon ran out of energy. I panted and wept bitterly while she watched me with apprehension etched in her eyes.

"_Let me go_," she hissed. The venom in her voice was still there.

"If you will just listen to me-" I gasped.

My Roma futilely pulled her leg from me and growled in aggravation. "Stop! I do not want to hear _any_more-"

"I love you!" I screamed, quickly drowning her voice in my own dark sound. "I love you!"

"You what-?" she stuttered. I felt the material of her dress flutter with her deep gasps.

My voice dropped until it was nothing more than a whisper; it sounded desperate.

"I am in love with…with you. And I am so very sorry. I-I lied to k-keep you with me," I breathed, burying my head against her shin. My hands, however, did not lose their vice-like grip.

My Roma collapsed into my arms and I did not waste a moment. I wrapped my thin arms around her and held her in a tight embrace. She simply sat like a lifeless doll.

"I am so sorry," I apologized again, stroking her hair.

My Roma then looked at me again. This time, without fear or hatred though I sensed her wince upon seeing my grotesque features. She seemed to assess me anew. And behind her cold exterior I sensed wonder and sympathy. In all honesty, I would have been very satisfied with just her pity alone.

She became silent. If her chest had not been heaving up and down with each labored breath, I would have believed her to be dead.

"You must hate me. You must want to leave." I said. It was not a question but an assertion and sadly, a fact. I felt her muscles stiffen under my fingertips, but she did not otherwise stir. From what I could deduce, she was in deep, impenetrable thought.

When she spoke once more I was relieved beyond words. "How much?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" I asked confused.

She did not look at me. "How _much_ do you love me?"

I gasped. I was inwardly very pleased that she would even consider asking. I began in a rush, "Oh Roma! More than you can ever imagine! I love you – so deeply and truly words can not describe it and minds can not comprehend it! My heart would burst from the feelings you ignite in me. I would gladly die for you, Roma."

Now that I think about it, my Roma was always like this. She would demand proof, fully aware that without some drastic act of devotion, her heart would not be moved. I never found it strange, but I have noticed this edge of cruelty. And today, as I write this, I see that perhaps that is why I was the only one who could possibly have loved her. Because I was the only thing on the planet that would have complied with her demands without question or doubt…

She was gazing directly in my eyes then. Her lips a small, empathetic smile. "You love me, you say," she repeated. Her eyes looked almost sleepy with that hypnotic smile.

I nodded vigorously.

"And how do I not know this is not just a ploy? Are you not planning to keep me and devour my soul?" she questioned. Her voice was quiet but deadly.

I shook my head until I could hear my brain thumping against the walls of my skull. "If it is proof you desire," I began, "Come."

My Roma had no choice as I scooped her frail body into my arms. Once the two of us reached the edge of the town, I placed her on the ground and flew up to a nearby tree. My Roma watched me skeptically as I let her go, but then became rigid with fear as I brought back a long, sharply pointed branch.

She cringed and squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the blow and the stabbing pain that never came. Instead, when her eyes opened once more, she saw me driving the end of the branch sharply into the back of my hand. I did not even feel the pain. I wanted her to believe me.

My Roma's earsplitting scream shook me. She ran to me, pulled at the hand with the stick and begged me with her precious heart to stop. Her small fingers pried the stick from mine and tossed it aside where she deemed it would do no further harm.

"Please!" she screamed. "Please STOP!"

I watched, detached from my body, as she tore a part of her dress and began wrapping my hand. When she had tied the loose ends tightly around my palm, she placed her hands delicately on my shoulders. I felt her shaking. She gulped upon making eye contact with me and I saw her lip quiver as she forced herself not to look away.

"You do not have to prove anything more to me," she began. But then she turned shyly and murmured, "Thank you."

I was very surprised. "Why?" I asked. "You should be enraged that I had frightened you so."

"Thank you for staying with me, protecting me, helping me," she said quickly. "I am more indebted to you now, more than ever-" she exhaled "- I am sorry I misjudged you."

"Roma," I began, "I consume people's souls-!"

She closed her eyes and squeezed them together before opening them again, and I saw they were glazed with tears. "I know you do not want to," she said. And I gasped for it was true.

"What does this mean, Roma?" I asked softly. "Does this mean you forgive me?"

My Roma looked at me with a strange, somewhat lost expression as though she herself did not know the answer. "There is nothing to forgive. I should never have obligated you to stay with me," she replied.

"No!" I cut in vehemently. "I stay with you because I want to!"

I caught a look of sympathetic appreciation delineated on her smooth features. "And I will stay with you," she said. "You are all I have left, Angel."

In retrospect, that line is so degrading, as though I was nothing but a last resort she had to accept. But back then, I could not have been more thrilled that she was going to stay with me, willingly.

I smiled and she must have noticed that my shapeless mouth, curved upward to indicate my happiness for my Roma smiled weakly along. But then I gave a dry laugh. "I am no angel," I said.

"Perhaps not," my Roma said cryptically. She looked at me with wet, passionate eyes and smiled again.

And do you know what my dear reader? I loved her even more then. And as every day passed my desire for her company seemed insatiable even though she stood not inches from my aching body.

I made her laugh sometimes, and again, my heart would become a cascade of molten honey. My eyes, my ears, my nose, and my mouth were attuned to nothing else but the lovely visage, sound, fragrance, and taste of my Roma. I had not identity without her, and this scared me. I feared losing her.

The two of us continued to travel as planned to the sacred mountain in hopes of finding the mythical fountain. Neither of us questioned its existence. It was there if we decided it was.

We spent every waking moment in each other's presence, save for the brief times when I was feeding. My Roma had not asked me any more about the habits of dementors and I was more than happy to avoid the subject. But I knew she was relentlessly curious about the extent of my strange abilities. Since she herself was never affected by my powers, she was intrigued by other mortals' reaction to my close proximity. When these unsuspecting bystanders shivered and cringed as I passed by, my Roma looked at them closely with every attempt to understand their very emotions.

It was also clear that though I had confessed my love for her, nothing had really changed. I mean, yes, things had changed. My Roma was somewhat uneasy around me. She forced her self to act cheerful to the point it made me sick. She did not love me and I could not help but more increasingly morose and glum.

This reality was made painstakingly clear when we encountered a boy – quite accidentally – at the market. My Roma, due to the violet spots above her eyes, had taken to draping a piece of fabric over her head in public. To her, it was a defense mechanism to prevent people from shunning her or denying hospitality. To me, it was a reminder of my Roma's dependence on me. I was simply content that no wandering male eyes would ever behold her.

But that thin, blue fabric did not stop my Roma from looking upon others. And when she saw the young lad, sprightly and flaxen-haired and sparkle-eyed, I knew her heart was loping.

"Excuse me miss," he said as he passed her with a crate of vegetables.

"Oh, yes of course," my Roma answered breathlessly. She averted her eyes while he watched her curiously.

"Can I help you?" he asked when she continued to loiter outside his stand.

"Let us go!" I pleaded softly. My Roma tore her eyes from his handsome face and looked at me resignedly. I could never forget that look of longing. I knew she would like nothing more than to enjoy a normal life with such a beautiful lover. Of course, it was no less than she deserved. But there was also an empathetic apology upon her face. The watering eyes and forced smile convinced me she was very sorry I had caught her unawares.

I have mentioned so many of my Roma's shortcomings. I suppose it is out of habit. I find it is easier to soothe a loss by mentioning all the flaws of the relationship. I can no longer remember how wonderful she truly was.

But there were moments like this that can help me explain her personality. My Roma was not selfless or noble, but she was very compassionate I believe. She was observant of the feelings of others – namely me – and would gallantly try to consider them.

My Roma did not want me to feel upset that she viewed another with admiration. She shifted upon meeting my darkening gaze and turned her back to both me and the boy.

"Wait!" the boy called as she walked away.

I glowered. But my poor, poor Roma too pathetically whirled around, unable to hide her yearning. She tried to slow her step to make the transition look less salient in my eyes, but it was too late. I noticed, and I was practically burning in anger.

The boy reached my Roma, who failed to answer his repeated calls. He bent forward and looked at my Roma with his striking blue eyes and asked, "Are you all right miss?"

And then, my poor Roma blushed so deeply I would have died of happiness had she looked at me that way. She tried to obscure her face from me, but it was too late again. The boy noticed, too, for a small smile had lit his tawny face.

His initial skepticism seemed to have turned to pure interest. He saw my Roma was but a girl, an incredibly attractive, innocent girl. His posture changed and his voice deepened.

"Do you need any help?" he asked.

My Roma bit her lip and looked toward me. I am sure she would have seen no more than my silhouette but it was enough to convince her fully of my fury. "No thank you," she answered finally. She sounded more determined than he most likely felt.

The boy looked disappointed, but it did not affect him for long. He walked off, and my Roma returned to my side.

"A-angel," she started, her voice cracking uncertainly, "Are you angry?"

She was so obsessed with my emotions. My Roma could never stand having someone _not_ like her. It was childish and petty, but it was sincere. And my anger was dispelled instantly.

"No," I replied.

The boy was already fleeing her mind. And once again, I gained a hold of her attention.

"Let us find something for you to eat," I said over-enthusiastically.

She nodded mutely and followed my lead.

Within an hour of the boy's interruption of our town scavenging, my Roma and I happened upon a wedding ceremony. Once again, it served as another heart-searing reminder of the life my Roma could no longer have.

I heard her choke and cough on her silent tears as we passed. The thick aroma of flowers and food was suffocating me as I steered my Roma from the crowd, and more significantly the glowing bride and groom.

As I passed by the anxious men and women, I saw the atmosphere change. The sound of the music seemed to ebb into a muffled silence and the sky darkened ominously over the altar. The crowd moaned and lamented this horrible omen. My Roma, meanwhile, did not take her eyes off of me.

When we were far away from the festivities, my Roma commented, "You have such an effect on others, yet not me."

"Yes," I agreed grimly. I watched her expression intently. She was concentrating on bridling her emotion and swallowing her tears. "Don't be sad," I murmured.

Tentatively, I came to her side and together we sat on the grass. My Roma clenched and unclenched her fingers.

"Why would I be sad?" she asked softly. She looked at me with those dark eyes; the look was inquisitive. But I did not answer her because I knew _she knew_ the answer to be self-evident.

A wedding: the thought came to my mind like a raven and began cawing away until my head was ringing with its images. My Roma at my side in a flowing white gown. My Roma, my bride.

In all of these pictures, I was not present. I supposed my own existence would ruin the fantasy, but I was now entranced at the idea of having my Roma to myself. Not that this idea had never cross my mind before, but because it had never occurred to me that a marriage could be the solution.

I exhaled contently. My Roma for real.

"Roma," I began quietly, "Do you remember the promise you made me? Did you not say you would do anything I asked?"


	13. Chapter 13: Request

Chapter 13: Request

My Roma's eyes widened upon hearing my query.

"Excuse me?" she whispered as though she could not believe what I had said. Her eyes cut through me for they were sharp enough. And I felt nauseous.

Her suspicious, doubt-infested demeanor made me assume her former promise had been less than earnest. I let her know of my disappointment, "I see. So that promise was a lie? Now that I am no longer your beloved angel, you would like to rescind your offer?"

My Roma was offended. Her cheeks puffed up as she inhaled sharply in betrayal. "I will do no such thing! I have given you my word have I not?" she demanded. "I intend to keep it!"

On the inside, I was smiling. It was of triumph, not joy, mind you.

"What is it that you ask of me?" she asked. Her voice did not waver and I was moved by her determination. She put her hands defiantly on her hips and scrutinized me from narrowed eyes.

"Roma," I said finally, "Will you marry me?" The words were out of my mouth before they had taken form in my head. And instantly, I was appalled by my own brashness. The words were blatant, bare, and unappealing. They seemed to crumble upon hitting the air.

My Roma looked as though she had been hit with a metal bar. The wind was knocked out of her, and she was panting desperately, wheezing her words with a distorted expression.

"Excuse me?!" she exclaimed. Her face turned scarlet from shock. "Marry?!"

I wanted to apologize, to tell her I was not serious and laugh until the burning pyre within my chest was quelled. But that was not true, and I was _so _serious. I could not force myself to take back my request. For if I did, I would only have degraded my emotions, made them trivial and unimportant enough for my Roma to brush off. And though my heart was flapping wildly behind its skeletal bars, I remained calm and unfazed. "Yes," I said firmly after a few minutes had passed, "I would like for you to be my wife."

My Roma's eyes grew immeasurably dark and her expression was hopelessly unreadable. "Your wife," she murmured as though she was speaking to herself.

I am sure she must have been imagining such a life. A life with me would be one devoid of normality or human deficits. It would be purely passion, that and fervor, both provided by me. And could she live so? Could she possibly breathe freely under my omnipresent shadow? I thought not, but I dared not let her know of my incredulity.

"How can I possibly marry you?" she asked abruptly. Her tone was haughty, almost contemptuous.

"What do you-?" I asked hurriedly.

"You are not human!" she cut in. "How can I – we – possibly?"

I was very confused. "What?" I interrupted.

She whipped around, her long hair whisked across her face. And I saw some strands stick to her cheeks, damp with her pouring tears. "So does your kind feel that way as well?" she cried in a voice that inflicted more pain than any mortal weapon.

"What do you mean?" I nearly shouted in frustration.

She merely shook her head in dismay and wipes her tears across the back of her pale hand. My Roma glared at me in disgust. "I am sure once you've made me your captive bride you wish to consummate our union! Is that not what you desire? To satisfy your – your lust!" she spat.

My Roma looked so dismayed, I felt self-loathing though I had yet to commit a crime against her. She sat on the ground with her arms clutched protectively around her torso. She feared me.

But I was indignant and infuriated at her accusation; the anger drowned out all the other nuances of sorrow I felt. "What do you take me for?" I bellowed. "Did you think I was like some common man? That I would take you to satiate carnal desires? Do you think I am so low?! How can you trample my honor like this – my _love_? To make dirty and corrupt them at your will!"

My Roma looked up hopefully upon hearing my avid protests. Her arms relaxed at her sides and she pulled herself hesitantly upright. "Then why?" she asked softly.

I looked at her. Her eyes were now dispelled from their former terror. "Because," I replied, leaning forward to touch her face, "I am selfish and greedy. I would like to marry and live with the one I love. Because it is the one wish I will ever have."

My Roma's face softened, but I sensed dissent pulsing through her form. "You only desire a wife?" she asked tentatively, "Nothing more?"

"I desire your companionship and trust," I replied.

She looked at me quizzically. I knew she was contemplating the authenticity of such a relationship. As a Muggle, I am sure she held other standards in mind when considering marriages. Love, for instance.

"You do realize," she began slowly, enunciating each syllable, "that I cannot give you what you desire?"

I felt my heart drop. "Not your friendship? Or trust?" I asked brokenly.

And my Roma looked at me with those eyes and they spoke forever. I watched her intently as she smiled that sweet, sad, tragic smile. "You desire so much more," she whispered.

I shook my head. "You are all I desire," I assured her.

She continued to smile and I reveled in the thin rosy blush painting her small face. "I will be your companion and your confidante. And I can only pray, I meet your expectations," she said finally.

"I expect nothing," I slurred, all too hastily.

"Really?" she asked with a somewhat mischievous twinkle in her eyes. It was quickly replaced by a glimmer of despair. "You will not love me forever. No one can."

"You do not know me," I answered confidently. I knew, even then, my love would never waver.

"No, you do not know _me_," she said. "I am not a good person. I agree to this marriage because you ask, because I owe you my life. I will make you believe I am yours. And will you love me then?"

My Roma's lips quivered as she spoke. Each word was accompanied by its own glistening teardrop and I wept for her sorrow. She was not a bad person. I never understood why deep down, she had such a negative image of herself when she was so eager to gain people's affections.

"Yes, I will love you no matter what," I replied swiftly. I gazed at her longingly until she was forced to accept my sincerity.

And my Roma's smile was genuine. She was so relieved that I had assured her against her darkest fears. In many ways, I think, the two of us were very similar. We both feared being alone…

My Roma's eyes were scintillating as she moved toward me and placed her hand in mine. I gasped as I felt the warmth of her skin and inhaled the scent of her flesh. My Roma looked at me curiously upon seeing the effect she had on me. And then, she moved even closer until I could have sworn I felt her arms against my torso. I felt my heart race and stagger at erratic intervals.

My Roma seemed to lean in, waiting for an embrace. But I could not bid my body to move.

I let my shyness overcome me and I backed away with a soft warning, "Remember, I am still dangerous."

She laughed, and I watched in awe as the color flooded her face once more. My Roma entwined her fingers in mine, and I was falling into bliss. Never in my wildest dreams did I ever once fancy holding hands with my Roma, like this. And I wanted to pull her into my arms and tell her how helpless and emotional she was making me. But I had no experience; I stood there stiffly as she rustled around me.

"I will try," she said, her voice trembling, "I will try my hardest to be a good wife."

I could not contain myself. I asked, "Roma, will you try to love me?"

"There are many types of love."

"Love me the way I love you?"

My Roma's smile faltered and she looked away, tilting her head to the sky and concentrating intently on the branches above our heads. Despite myself, I felt tears running down my face. No matter how many times I tried to prepare for rejection, I was still – secretly – hoping for acceptance. My heart was broken again.

"Shhh," my Roma cooed when she saw me, "Don't cry! I will try, and I will pour my heart to you. You will be first in my thoughts and prayers."

She grasped my wrists firmly and then pressed my palms to each other. Then, she wrapped her own hands around mine and gave them a tight squeeze of reassurance. I looked at her sadly and was discouraged by the guilt in her gestures. I believe she was too intimidated by my ugliness to lay a finger on my face, but I was not offended. I watched her lethargically and groggily through my foggy eyes.

"I promise!" she said too enthusiastically.

But do you know what, dearest reader? I believed her. I did not want to question her further, to press upon doubts that haunted my own mind more than hers. I wanted us to be a happy couple. No, I wanted _me _to be happy.

We married ourselves. No one was witness to this sacred ceremony, this so-called holy matrimony. My Roma put hours into preparation. And though at first I insisted none was necessary, I was glad she had put in so much effort to make our wedding as legitimate as possible.

My Roma looked splendid. She wove white daisies into her hair and made sweet rings from the clovers. It was like human childhood. We exchanged rings but there was no kiss, only an innocent embrace that bound our souls together.

She seemed happy, and her laughter was infectious. I smiled and laughed with her. For a moment, we both forgot one of us was terminally ill.

"You know," my Roma said to me, "I have not been this content in a long time."

Of course, I had never been this content in my entire life. I desired with every fiber of my being that our lives could be as perfect as it was then.

When the wedding ended, my Roma was feverish and I spent the next several days replacing thin washcloths on her forehead. She cried in her sleep, and I grew sick with worry and anxiety. I felt so helpless. And the more she writhed in pain, the more panicked I became.

But as quickly as these paroxysm came, they left. And once again my Roma was bounding across grassy knolls, singing and talking as though nothing had happened. I was too easily comforted by her smiling face.

The roses were now permeating my Roma's body at a startling rate. In fact, her entire right knee looked purple-black when I caught glimpses of her legs as she ran. I was deeply distressed by all signs of the disease and could not bear to think, let alone speak, of it.

My Roma pretended not to notice them. Subconsciously, she would pull her skirt tighter against her legs or her sleeves about her arms when she realized they were all-too revealing of her condition. I would smile sadly and disregard them as well. But deep down, we both were confused and frightened. Our search for the mythical mountain was not mentioned nor sought. The two of us spent our time as though another day – and yet another – would come.

When the summer was approaching a dull, gloomy end, we decided to settle down and end our unspoken journey in hopes of surviving the cold. I, of course, had no problem with wandering, but my Roma was not so impermeable. She needed a roof over her head and a floor beneath her. So, the two of us began our two-week search of shelter.

Luckily, we chanced upon an abandoned town. Most likely, the plague had wiped out the inhabitants or at the very least, forced them to flee. The nicest house was still but a humble dwelling with sturdy though somewhat dilapidated wooden walls and floors. We made ourselves comfortable, arranging the little furniture that had been left behind. I was very conscious of our situation, and I was very sad to see my beautiful Roma in this setting.

Had she married the lord's son, where would she be? Perhaps in a large castle? Her own room? My heart ached at the thought.

"Do you think this is enough?" my Roma's voice called from outside. I swirled around to see her stumbling through the doorway with a modest pile of wood. Her arms quaked beneath the bundle and I dashed toward her, snatching it away.

"Please!" I nearly shouted. My Roma looked alarmed if not offended. I hurriedly lowered my voice, "Please do not do things like these."

She looked confused. "You do not want help?" she asked.

"No, I am fine. Please, just let me do this," I begged, "Why don't you sit and rest?"

My Roma did not look pleased by this suggestion but she did not question me further. She compressed herself neatly unto a chair and peered at me through curiously wide eyes.

"Is there something wrong?" she asked after a long lapse of silence.

"No," I replied.

"There is, isn't there?" she continued.

"No!" I snapped. My Roma's eyes flared.

"There is no need to get angry!" she cried indignantly. I threw the pile of sticks unto the floor in frustration and unbridled rage.

"I don't want you doing those things anymore you understand?!" I retorted. "I don't want you to work or do anything you wouldn't be doing had you married otherwise!"

She was livid at this point, and when she spoke again, her voice was frigid. "And what do you mean by that?" she hissed.

"You would be living in some palace, attended by servants, cared for, protected! I don't want you to compare this lifestyle to that!" I cried hysterically.

"Oh! So this is about your jealousy!" she said in mock triumph. "Well, sir, I never was clever enough to make that comparison!"

She folded her arms across her chest and turned her back to me.

My anger could not last. I sought her forgiveness immediately. Surrendering, I sidled up close to her chair, lowering myself in defeat.

"Roma," I moaned. "Roma, please don't be angry."

She pretended not to hear me, and she turned to leave the room. But as she did, her foot caught on a snag and she tumbled forward.

I was not quick enough to catch her and hit the ground on her knees. I rushed toward her, expecting her to whine and cry in pain. But when I helped her awkwardly to her feet, she began laughing.

"That was not what I had in mind," she admitted, rubbing her knees to mitigate the soreness.

"You are not mad?" I asked hesitantly.

She shook her head and smiled coyly. I loved her even more.

And my lips tingled to ask, "Do you love me?" But I knew from her eyes it was not the time. She did not love me just yet.


End file.
